Thirty Seven Hours of Travel

Yemenat

Mohammed Al-Mekhalfi

I wrapped my head in my woolen shawl and left the house, braving the bone-chilling cold of Sana’a. It was nearly eight in the evening, and the city was dozing off under dim lights and the faint movement of a few passersby.

With heavy steps, I walked to Aden stop at Bab al-Yemen, where my friend and colleague, Yahya Hameed Al-Faqih, was waiting for me.

After a few minutes, we boarded the bus that would take us on the long journey to Aden, that far-off city in the south of my beloved country Yemen, nearly three hundred and seventy-eight kilometers from Sana’a.

The passengers’ faces concealed untold stories of weariness and hope. The bus moved slowly, navigating the dimly lit streets. No sooner had we left the outskirts of Sana’a than we were halted at the first checkpoint. The soldiers took our identification cards, recorded our information, and questioned us about our reason for traveling to Aden.

The same scene repeated at every checkpoint, though with less severity, until we passed Dhamar. There, a long line of vehicles stood waiting in heavy silence. We remained stuck for nearly two hours before we were finally allowed to continue.

We resumed our journey toward Yareem, then on to Naqeel Somarah, a mountain pass stretching about twelve kilometers. The road was winding and narrow, perilously overlooking deep abysses on both sides, every turn stealing our breath away.

Then we began descending toward Al Dalel, a vast valley scattered with smaller ravines, as the night’s frost seeped through the bus windows, stinging our tired faces.

We continued until Sahoul Bin Naji, which extends to the outskirts of Ibb. There, at the city’s entrance, the lights of houses scattered along the mountain slopes greeted us—tired stars struggling not to fade.

As I